


don't leave me here alone

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Don't say goodbye", #8, Angst, Childhood Memories, Emotional Hurt, Flashbacks, Goodbyes, Memories, No. 8, Red Dead Redemption - the mission, Sad Ending, Where did everybody go?, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, no happy ending, number 8, whumptober2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2020, #5: Where Did Everybody Go?: "Don't Say Goodbye"“You’re my brother,”and when had they stopped being brothers?“I know,” Arthur didn’t even pause, just leaned against the side of the cliff face for the briefest moment to catch his breath, looked back at him and said it with a nod of his head as though it were a given, as though he’d said the sky was blue and water’s wet, then again, “I know.” before continuing on his way.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945801
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	don't leave me here alone

###  _don't leave me here alone_  
~Safe and Sound, Taylor Swift

_“Come on, Arthur… keep pushin’!”_

Arthur had always been the one to keep him going. When he was younger and everything seemed _so hard_ he’d be there, insisting _‘naw, it ain’t so hard, is it?’_ and try his hand at it. Was always _right there,_ supporting him even if he seemed like he was just being a dick at the time.

_“Let’s go, come on!”_

But now… now Arthur was giving up. Crumpling slowly in front of him - he’d thought he was going to lose him back in Beaver Hollow, hearing him gurgling his breaths as he struggled through the cave and up the ladder, seeing him struggle to get to his feet after soothing his horse in its death. A few times after that, when he’d seen Arthur struggling, coughing so loud it seemed to drown out the gunfire, staggering as his shots went wide.

Arthur… Arthur was dying. Had been dying for quite some time, though he hadn’t realized it. Hadn’t _wanted_ to realize it - it was impossible to miss, his coughing fits kept them up late into the night, and he’d changed _so much_ in the time it took Arthur to save him from Sisika he hadn’t recognized him for a moment, had felt his stomach churn and drop, his face as white as stone and… god, it seemed so obvious now, but then they’d ridden into Beaver Hollow and he’d seen Abigail and Jack and Dutch had been _furious_ and everything was different and Arthur had fallen onto the back-burner and he’d been left to suffer it alone but no, he hadn’t been alone, had he? He’d had Charles, if only for a short time, and thank god for Charles they’d all have been lost without him.

Arthur cracked a shot off over his shoulder, stopped to let him stumble by and shit his shoulder _hurt_ he couldn’t believe Dutch had left him to die. Had looked him in the _goddamn_ eye and ridden away, had grabbed Old Boy and left him to bleed to death.

God, _Dutch,_ what had happened?

He hadn’t known much else in his life except for Hosea and Dutch and Arthur and _god_ Hosea he’d never even gotten to mourn him, had watched him die then been arrested, abandoned by Dutch _then,_ too. They’d taken him in when he was only twelve or so (he didn’t rightly know how old he was but that was Hosea’s best guess and to them it had seemed reasonable enough) and he’d known no other life. Had known orphanages for a few years before them, a dead mother and a sad father that had turned into a drunk-dead father.

He wanted nothing more than to think that Dutch had always cared for him. That he really had viewed him as his son, as his friend, that it had all been _real_ and that half his life hadn’t been a lie. He could have been a perfectly good little soldier without knowing how to read or write - would have been a better one, perhaps, without such distractions, but it had been _Dutch_ that decided to teach him, _Dutch_ who plopped a book down in front of him one day and refused to walk away even after he’d grown frustrated enough to bite him.

_“Keep pushin’, Arthur!”_

But Hosea would have insisted on it too, he knew. All three of them had known how to read and to write, so how would it be fair if he didn’t? And besides, it wouldn’t have fit Dutch’s little _image_ to have just one of their number at such a disadvantage.

And all the times he’d been _cruel._ Maybe not obviously so, but there had been times even when it had been _good,_ when it was just them four and Susan, Bessie and Annabel, when he’d felt as though he had to walk on eggshells for fear of Dutch snapping at him. Remembered all the times he’d been made to feel like _utter shit_ for not picking something up quick enough, was starting to realize _far too late_ just how much he and Arthur had been pitted against each other - remembered how much he’d resented Arthur when he was new, as Dutch had always lamented _‘Oh, Arthur learned this so easily’,_ remembered Dutch going on for _hours_ around the campfire about how well he was doing which, at the time, had confused him because _wasn't he just frustrated with me?'_ and had a sinking feeling he knew just where the cracks that had formed between he and Arthur had started - somewhere far, _far_ earlier than he’d ever thought, before they’d even gotten close and had a relationship _to_ break.

  
  


_“Come on, we need to get goin’!”_

God, Arthur sounded like he was suffocating behind him and

Arthur’s footsteps stopped.

John half expected to find him collapsing, feared finding him shot through, feared that his lungs had given out because _god_ how could he breathe like that? it hadn’t sounded like breathing at all but he was only catching his breath and John felt like a true monster but they had the rest of their lives to catch their breaths - however long that might be.

“Alright Arthur come on, let’s go!”

And Arthur didn’t stand, didn’t try to move, only brought his hand up and waved at him as though he were some pesky gnat, 

“You go…”

No, not this shit again.

He could see the exhaustion that lined his bones, could _hear_ him fighting for each breath. But they’d made it this far already, had escaped _so many_ Pinkertons, they were _so close_ and he had already lost Hosea, had already lost the man he used to call _Pa,_ he refused to lose Arthur too.

“Keep…” and he hadn’t realized just out of breath he himself was, “pushin’, Arthur.”

He staggered forward, clutching his shoulder - he’d drag Arthur down the mountain himself if he had to, but

“No.”

and Arthur was straightening up, coughing and John’s blood turned to ice when he saw the blood that sprayed through the air, though Arthur didn’t react at all, didn’t flinch, his eyes didn’t widen even in that minuscule way of his, and it spoke volumes - and again, “no…” he wiped the blood from his mouth as though it were some common occurrence and, with a sinking feeling, John thought it might just be, “I think I’ve pushed all I can.”

_‘No.’_

“Come on.” Arthur had never let him down before. When he’d been on that mountain, freezing and bleeding to death, he’d come for him. He’d _disobeyed Dutch_ to break him out of one of the world's highest security prisons. Arthur _never_ let him down.

“You go.”

and he was saying it as though it were some simple thing. As though it would be easy for John to just turn around and walk away, to leave him behind to die.

“We ain’t got time for this, not now!”

and then that grin. Damn that grin, that one that said _‘I know what I’m doing, I have a plan. And it’s a good one.’_ All bared bloody teeth, open and sad and _god, don’t,_ he was removing his hat, shaking his head.

“We ain’t both gonna make it.”

The worst part of it was, John knew he was right. His arm, at least, had clotted up as he dragged himself back to camp and, though it hurt, was an infection risk, it was no great danger. But Arthur… god, Arthur looked half a corpse. His skin already waxy, half-translucent, John could count the veins in his face, the burst blood vessels in his eyes, and already his lips were tinged blue.

“Go…”

_No._

“Now.”

John’s voice stuck in his throat.

“I’ll hold them off.”

And then Arthur was placing his hat on his head.

_“Hey Arthur?”_

_“What.”_

_“Your hat, why you always wear that hat?”_

_“Well… it means a lot to me.”_

_“Why?”_

_“...”_

_“Why?”_

_“Jesus. Belonged to my Daddy. Reminds me not to become him, I suppose.”_

“It would mean a lot to me.”

His throat shut tight - he could hardly breathe.

_No._

“Please.”

_Don’t say goodbye._

“There ain’t no more time for talk.” and god, Arthur sounded like he could hardly get the words out himself as he removed his satchel.

_“John!”_

_“Hosea!”_

_“Give the man his hat back, John.”_

_For years, John’s life mission had been to steal that hat._

He fumbled, reached for words that, somehow, could convince Arthur to stay. But the leather of his hat, when he reached up to secure it safer on his head - god, he’d never forgive himself if it got so much as _scuffed_ \- was all too real beneath his hand.

_“John? Where y’ goin’?”_

_“...out.”_

_“Out where?”_

_“Gonna take Old Girl for a walk, can’t sleep.”_

_He hadn’t come home for a year._

Arthur nearly knocked him off his feet with how hard he shoved the satchel into his chest—

_“What’s this?”_

_“From Hosea, kid. Eat."_

—and seeing him holding only a single revolver and a handful of ammo, _nothing_ against the army of Pinkertons that, even then, they could hear fighting what was left of the Van der Linde gang (insanely, for just a moment, John wondered if they were still alive - though Bill had turned a gun to him he wasn’t well, he could see that now, and he and Javier used to be the best of friends, and Javier hadn’t turned a gun on them, had been taken by surprise though he’d been _horrible_ in the end - they’d all been brothers, once)—it sank in _horribly,_ he was going to rush off to his death, try and do some horrible stand-off, one man against _dozens_ of Pinkertons, maybe he could have done it once but that was when he’d been _healthy,_ when he’d had long-arms and countless sidearms that were, at that moment, rotting with his horse, ammunition sitting on his belt to be quickly grabbed.

“Go.”

He shook his head - _no, no!_ \- and, as though it would, somehow, help gestured with his gun down the path “Arthur.”

And he turned to him, “Go to your family,” tried to shoo him away, looking up at the mountain as though he could somehow climb it—

_“Careful kid,”_

_“Ain’t a kid,”_

_“Don’t put your hand there,”_

_“I know what I’m doin’!”_

_“John-”_

_“SHIT!”_

_“-told you so.”_

—“Arthur!” he gestured again, more sharply, _‘come with me!’_ and when Arthur turned to him it was with a snarl, snapping to try and chase him away and he knew what he was doing,

“Get the hell out of here and be a goddamn man.”—

_“Stop treatin’ me like a kid!”_

_“Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna treat you like an adult!”_

_“When the hell are you gonna get over it, huh? That was three years ago!”_

_“A goddamn_ man _doesn’t abandon his family!”_

—He knew when Arthur had made up his mind, _truly_ made it up, even Dutch himself couldn’t get him to change it. And god, but he wanted to make him change his mind—

_“Son if you’d just_ please-”

_“No.”_

_“Arthur-”_

_“No.”_

_“But-”_

_“The boy said no, Dutch,” (and he was pretty sure Hosea had been biting down a laugh)_

—but they were running out of time and he’d never gotten to apologize, not for all the shit he’d pulled, not for all the low blows and yeah Arthur owed him a hell of a lot of apologies too but

“You’re my brother,”

and when had they stopped being brothers?

“I know,” Arthur didn’t even pause, just leaned against the side of the cliff face for the briefest moment to catch his breath, looked back at him and said it with a nod of his head as though it were a given, as though he’d said the sky was blue and water’s wet, then again, “I know.” before continuing on his way.

  
  


He wanted to stop him. Wanted to grab him by the boot and drag him down, haul him kicking and screaming to Copperhead Landing, find him a doctor and make him well again.

But John was no fool. Thick, yes, but not a fool. Even sick and dying Arthur was stronger than him, and if he tried to haul him down they’d be overtaken by Pinkertons long before they made any true progress.

God it _hurt,_ but he knew he had no other choice—

_“We’re family, son. Family means never leaving anyone behind.”_

—took a long, final look at Arthur, watched as he slung himself over the ledge, then fled down the mountain, never letting go of his hat even as a sharp whistle pierced the air, a familiar snow white horse bolted passed him.

  
  


_“You’re leaving.”_

_“What?”_

_“I heard you talkin’ to that Mary girl. She wants you to leave.”_

_“I… You heard that?”_

_“I did.”_

_“Well… don’t worry about it.”_

_“But… but you’re leaving!”_

_“No I’m not, John. I… I’m gonna talk to Hosea and Dutch about havin’ her come with us.”_

_“...What?”_

_“You didn’t really think I’d leave, did you?”_

_“...everyone leaves.”_

_“Nah, I don’t leave family behind._

_And you, Dutch and Hosea?_

_You’re my family.”_


End file.
